How the night has infinite possibilities,
In New York City. As a Sri Lankan man
In Manhattan, in a new blue checked shirt,
On a new street he has never set his eyes on before,
A 27 year old virgin, who was brand-spanking new,
Just like an un-driven car in a dealership,
Searching for a new experience, a new ordeal,
A new launching pad, the anthesis of a dream,
To see, to feel and to quench,
To another burning body.
It took three hours to let go of my barstool
Walkaway with a brunette in titanium glasses,
Sarah, her name was. How beautiful
Were her frames, curved and square,
On eyes that were sugar maple, and a hammock-ed
Smile that was asking me to rest on her for a while.
How my body went from first gear to fourth,
Until my face stood like a super moon,
As I gazed at her, looking at me; how her maple
Irises were now dappled in salty dew,
As if, there was a whole new dimension,
To our hearts, now that, we had extinguished,
What we had lit up as bonfires.
How two people, who were not in love,
Explored how lust could prime, amplify and then drop;
A moment of burning bodies, to the incumbent
Possibilities, of glowing cinders. How we both
Looked at each other, wishing so much
We had more time, for primary research,
And to kindle a hypothesis, that was
Both endearing, and yet, weakening your knees.
How we longed, for something more than,
A match stick flame, or a flash flood.
We both knew, this wasn’t just any sleazy night,
When we let our firewalls be absented,
While we engaged in arson, untethering our lips,
No longer burning on curved meniscuses,
Substituting firewater with fire.